“Writing is a way of talking without being interrupted.”

~Jules Renard

I‘m a writer. It makes no difference that I first picked up my pen just a year and a half back; a woman is no less a mother when her milk first begins to flow.

Writing, to me, is the music I make for a dance of my own design; the legacy I will one day leave of the life I lived. I am a writer because it is a sterling affair, each of those moments when I find the sound of swirling syllables speaking in a symphony born from the abyss of my soul; a tangle of thought unraveled upon the page revealing my inner self and then placing it on display for the reader as I stand back both bashful and proud.

I’m a writer because I mourn the brevity of our existence and am selfish enough to wish I might live through the best of my moments more than once. A born writer, I believe, is fortunate to inhabit more than a single existence. One life he lives firmly fixed in the reality swimming before him, along with the million or so versions waiting patiently at the opposite end of his mind’s eye, eager to reveal their own romantic record of yesterday.

Now the knowledge that I am a writer swims through my senses, deeply submerged and rarely rising for breath. I ponder at where it might take me. What worlds will I create and who will my mind manufacture to fill them?

For a writer, imagination is the only horizon.

For the dozen years preceding my life with a pen, I made my living with flowers. Perhaps it was there where I learned to manipulate beauty and discover I could take something simply beautiful and shape it into something breathtaking.  I was fortunate to find myself in a shop with no shortage in its selection.  I discovered my favorite flowers, combined them with colors that echoed, and found that nature itself was merely a suggestion.

I long to write like that.  I would never wish to labor in a standard store with only two flowers in a half dozen colors, I want to wander the aisles among roses of every color.

Primary colors coalesce for the rainbow, but the remaining hues paint the world that lies beneath.

I want to write where every single sentence brings me closer to the essential truth of what makes me who I am, painting my life with the tip of a pen or stroke of a key, rinsing memory in vivid color, then carving a future from the words I create.

I’m a writer.  Now, for the first time, I have a place to messy my desk with paper and pen and pull the best from inside me.

Welcome to the Inkwell.

Sean